


Oh, Raven

by athousandvictories



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: ...unless?, Canon Era, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Dark Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mind Control, Of course not, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Spells & Enchantments, Wings, does Geralt have A Thing for monsters?, it's about Destroying Geralt's Fear of Being An Unworthy Abomination, it's about The Inherent Sexiness of Giant Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandvictories/pseuds/athousandvictories
Summary: He had lived. He'd done fine. There were two of them, instead of one, which was a complication, obviously. But Geralt had handled it. He'd downed whatever potion and taken out the first one in a few seconds with Yrden and some fast sword-work, which—why the fuck does Jaskier know what Yrden is? He's been on the road way too goddamned long. Anyway, the first one was not a problem, the second was maybe a slight problem, and yes, Jaskier should have stayed further away from the whole thing.Jaskier is cursed, complications arise.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 282
Kudos: 3509





	Oh, Raven

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be beautiful, poetic, and angsty, and then I derailed it with my love of bickering... so it goes.  
> 
> 
>   
>   
> Art by [kritastrophe](https://kritastrophe.tumblr.com/)  
>   
> 

It's honestly his own fault. Geralt had told him not to come, told him arachnomorphs were fast and dangerous.

"Are those the poison-spider things?" He'd asked. A good question, honestly. A deciding factor.

"No. That's arachasae." Geralt had replied, brusque as ever. As if he'd expected Jaskier's university education to include a year or so on angry, man-eating bugs.

"If I can't die inhaling the air next to it I'm sure I'll live." He'd said.

He had lived. He'd done fine. There were two of them, instead of one, which was a complication, obviously. But Geralt had handled it. He'd downed whatever potion and taken out the first one in a few seconds with Yrden and some fast sword-work, which—why the fuck does Jaskier know what Yrden is? He's been on the road way too goddamned long. Anyway, the first one was not a problem, the second was maybe a slight problem, and yes, Jaskier should have stayed further away from the whole thing. But how was he to know there were three? The blame here clearly lies with the townspeople, who should really have been able to calculate the total giant-spider population based on rate of goat disappearance. Gods.

He had taken a—well, it's not small. A regular-sized pincher-slash to the shoulder, but he'd also screamed and warned Geralt about the third enormous-angry-spider-thing before it could take advantage of the element of surprise. So really, what he deserves is credit.

What he's getting instead is the worst fever of his life, and a lot of glares from Geralt, who's sitting across from his greasy little cot. (The grease is not from him, by the way, the thing was disgusting _before_ he'd started sweating all over it.) Anyway.

"I saved you," he croaks at Geralt. He's been doing this from time to time for the past two hours. It's a great comfort to him. It makes Geralt glare a bit more alertly. 

"If you're awake, drink this," Geralt says, and leans over the bed to dump a cup of something absolutely foul down his throat. 

"Mmph—augh! If I wasn't poisoned—urgh, _urgh_ —before, I'm done for now." The stuff is barely liquid and it's stuck in his throat like cold gravy, if cold gravy was made of shit.

"You shouldn't be poisoned at all." Geralt growls.

"Yes, it's really just a flesh wound," Jaskier gasps heroically. "Augh! Eck. Was that made from the spider-guts?"

Geralt does not dignify these theatrics with any sign of attention, but he's glaring less.

Then—then Jaskier's hit by what feels like a wall of pain, and he doesn't remember starting to scream, but someone is _howling_ , and there's blood everywhere, on the bed, on his hands, there's even dots of it on Geralt's face, somehow. Jaskier had broken a rib once(falling off a rooftop as an idiot child), and this is like that, except it feels like all of his ribs are broken at once and trying to crawl out of his spine.

At some point he sort of—leaves his body behind, enough that he can look at what's happening. Geralt's beside him, looking furiously distraught (or worriedly enraged? very satisfying, though) and his hands are bright with blood from wherever he's touched Jaskier. The sheets he's tangled in are black with it. He can hear tearing, and screaming, and then the sound goes away, and everything is dark.

*

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is the smell. It's blood, which he's familiar with, since Geralt's usually covered in some variety of it. He tries to wrench himself into an upright position, survey the damage, but he's heavy, somehow, unbalanced, and aching, and...

"Careful," comes Geralt's voice. "You're—it'll feel different."

There's something all folded up under him, some _things_ —and they're attached to him somehow. He spends a minute trying to reach his own back with his hands so he can figure out what the actual _fuck_ is going on. 

What's going on apparently, is that he has two giant feathery wings. Different is the understatement of the year. He tries to yell something at Geralt and he's not sure if he succeeds before he passes out.

He figures it all out properly the next morning. The main thing is that he's now some strange bird-hybrid thing. The wings are huge, they stretch from his head to the bottom of his calf, about, when folded in—yes, he can fucking _fold_ them. He cannot flap them without falling. He puts this problem aside, because it's really a bit much for someone In His Condition, and does an inventory of everything else. If he can grow wings, nothing is safe.

He'd planned to start wailing questions at Geralt, but Geralt is sitting there looking pained, so he doesn't. He just scrambles around the musty room at whatever shithole inn this is, trying to make sense of everything. The rest of it is relatively minor—the skin on his back has healed, even though his shoulderblades ache constantly, his canines are sharp enough to cut his lips instantly, and from what he can tell from staring into a vaguely shiny plate lying on the floor (at least Geralt's eating!) his irises are a bright red.

Eventually he realizes that his mouth tastes oddly sour. Geralt's probably been pouring painkillers down his throat or something, and that's why everything's so fuzzy, why he isn't screaming or ranting or even really coming up with anything to say.

"Jaskier," he hears Geralt say, his normally-flat voice heavy with—something—and then he's wobbling, and Geralt's arms are banded around him as he blacks out.

The next time he wakes up, he's definitely not drugged—he can tell because he's in extreme pain. He has to shove the wings—his wings—into position with his hands so he can sit up without bending them against the bed. Geralt's sitting in his chair staring, like he'd been doing when this whole mess started, like he hasn't moved for the past—

"How long—how long have I been out?"

"Three days. You slept for the first one. Second one you were lucid, third one you walked a little."

Great. That was detailed. Typical witcher. Actually, he's never met any other witchers, but it's deeply satisfying to imagine six young Geralts brooding silently in a circle.

"I think you were cursed."

There's the details! "What? Where? When? I think I would have noticed, if someone cursed me. Honestly, Geralt. Isn't it possible the spider just—"

"Arachnomorph. No. It was at Jamurlak last week."

"Oh, they _really_ did not like you there."

"They didn't like you either."

"They liked me fine, except for that old crone on High Street who told me to—oohhhh. Ohhhhh. Shit, shit, shit."

It's honestly not even a good story. The whole area was too close to Blaviken to be any good for Geralt, but they'd gone anyway, to take out some creature or other (a cockatrice, maybe? Whatever, it's not his area of expertise, in the song he made later it was a cockatrice). They'd been less welcome than almost anywhere Jaskier had personally experienced, his excellent pro-witcher propaganda notwithstanding. It wasn't _bad_ though, they'd just needed to stay in a scummy inn on the edge of town for double what they ought to have paid. That and some gnarled woman had yelled at him in the street for playing his lute, like some kind of uncultured lunatic.

"Get out of here, you nasty little balladeer, and take your butcher with you!" He mimics her high, raspy voice. Geralt does not look amused.

"And then you told her to go fuck herself."

"I believe in equality! If someone wants to insult me—or you—I'm going to return the favour, little old lady or no. Anyway, then she said 'don't go meddling in things you don't understand, you stupid little songbird, or you'll regret it.' Ohhh. Ohhhhhh."

"Yes." Geralt says dryly.

Jaskier had definitely _just_ meddled in things he didn't understand, giant spiders, specifically.

"Well, how was I to know she was a witch, and that while I was engaging in _harmless banter_ , she was cursing me into an oversized raven."

"You couldn't." Geralt says looking stern. Not that he doesn't always, but this is a touch sterner. He's probably blaming himself, the noble fool.

"Not everything's about you, you know. I'd have come along anyway, or else gone to the whorehouse and you'd be witcher-mush in some spider's digestive tract right now." Geralt does not correct the narrative—he's definitely blaming himself. Jaskier doesn't know if continuing to talk will distract him from self-flagellation, but it's worth a shot.

"What I'd like to know is how exactly some untrained old biddy is powerful enough to set a curse on me sophisticated enough to activate when a monster takes a slice out of my arm, but not when it's Balt of fucking Roggeven trying to carve me up."

"We'll ask her when we find her," Geralt says, in a dangerous tone, and Jaskier does _not_ let himself _like_ that.

"Put this on."

His third-best doublet has now been retrofitted with two slashes up the back, presumably to accommodate the wings. Geralt ignores his indignation at the state of it and waits for him to put it on. Then he pulls out a leather strap, because he just—has those, apparently, and starts tying Jaskier's wings down onto his back.

"Ow. Ow, Geralt. Auuughhh."

"People don't like..." and Jaskier's thinks he's going to say _monsters_ , and is suddenly cold, "anything inhuman."

Well. That's certainly true.

"If anything happens, get out of there. I'll deal with it." Geralt says as he wraps Jaskier in his cloak, fastens it in the front like Jaskier hasn't still got functioning arms. The whole gesture is weirdly protective and Jaskier tries, he really tries, not to read into it. It's not that Geralt _cares_ so much as that he feels responsible for his safety. And maybe indebted a little, since Jaskier's screaming abilities probably, definitely saved his well-shaped arse from being spider-bait. Arachnomorph bait. Whatever. He's allowed to be smug about it.

The cloak is enormous, and almost covers the wings. There's still a suspicious bulk extending above his shoulders, but there's not much to be done about that.

They get out of the inn easily enough. A kitchen girl gapes at them, but Jasker tells her that there's nothing to see here, and she turns away, chastened. The stablehand might have been more trouble, but Geralt tips him a copper coin and Jaskier tells him to fuck off, and soon Roach is ambling off in the direction of Jamurlak, gamely carrying their combined weight plus thirty pounds of wings. Jaskier lets himself nod off with his head pressed to Geralt's back, and it really—it could be worse.

"So," he says, when he wakes up. "We're planning to go halfway across the continent and throttle an old woman until she cures me."

"Yes."

"And if that doesn't work? It's a possibility, curses don't just 'lift'."

"Yes, they do. I could lift it from myself."

"But you can't with me."

"Not without killing you."

"Great. So we're hoping this nasty crone has an anti-curse recipe handy. And if not—gods. How am I going to rejoin civilization? Actually, I think... I would simply have to make very opulent, suspiciously bulky cloaks my personal trademark. People love eccentric performers. Obviously, or how would Valdo Marx have ever made a copper coin?"

Geralt glances backward over his shoulder, looking almost amused. That's odd. No—no, it's not. Jaskier's fucking funny. And he's being incredibly forbearing about this whole situation.

They stop for lunch eventually, which is just more proof that Geralt feels guilty, since he usually doesn't believe in leisure, enjoyment, or comfort. There's bread and cheese, which is normal, but it's on the soft side for once, since it hasn't been drying out in their packs for weeks. It peps him up enough to try the wings again. 

"You aren't light enough," Geralt says, eating pieces of an apple off his knife.

This is _after_ Jaskier's sixth anticlimatic attempt to launch himself skyward by running and flapping. Well, this last one was climatic, because he tripped on a rock at the end of it.

"Excuse me? Are you calling me fat? Because you can just—"

"No." Geralt smiles down at his knife. "You don't have light enough bones. Might need some kind of magic for them to work."

"And you tell me this now." Jaskier brushes off his pants and considers the merits of throwing the rock at Geralt.

"It was worth a try," Geralt says, deadpan. He's laughing _inside,_ Jaskier knows it. The prick.

"I'm not sure what's worse—being cursed with wings, or the fact that the wings don't do anything."

"It's not so bad, little bird. You could be a hedgehog." Geralt grins at himself, which, fine. Someone has to do it, since he's not funny. 

"I'm not your little bird," Jaskier grumbles, but he's honestly—it's not the worst thing he's ever been called. He definitely doesn't _like_ it, though. Obviously.

*

Jaskier knows that historically, things do not Go Well for witchers (or for him, apparently), but he likes it. Likes being on the road with Geralt, likes plucking out new songs under the night sky before he falls asleep. Likes Geralt, despite the fact that there's always a veil of grime coating him, and that he's emotionally unavailable, and that his jokes are incredibly unfunny. The rest of the day is serene as it can be, for a cursed person.

Then they're about to make camp, and Geralt's just going to go get firewood, and Jaskier wants him to look for chives while he's at it (plain bread and cheese is for peasants), and Jaskier doesn't feel like jogging after Geralt's weirdly enormous stride, so he just—yells.

"Geralt, stop!"

Geralt turns, and for a fraction of a second his expression hardens, and then he stills completely. It's eerie. Jaskier doesn't order Geralt around expecting to be _listened_ to. 

"Geralt? I just wanted..."

He stops, because Geralt's face is oddly blank, even for Geralt. Jaskier walks over to him, staring hard into the amber eyes, waiting for a flicker of recognition. There's nothing. 

"Geralt, put your hand on your head." He doesn't know why he said it. He shouldn't have, it just—it came to mind.

Geralt does, numbly. It looks so beyond ridiculous that Jaskier wants to laugh, but it's also _not quite funny_.

"Put it down", he whispers, and his heart plummets as Geralt complies, a frown flickering on his face and then disappearing. This is not good. This is very... cursey. And he can taste blood in his mouth, which does not add lightness to the situation. He coughs a little and swallows it.

He wants Geralt back in his right mind, immediately, but underneath there's something dark, some hidden, squirming part of him begging to find out exactly how far this goes. He's suddenly oddly cold, and he knows, just _knows_ , that if he just asks _one more thing_ he'll be _warm_.

"Find your knife, Geralt." It's not quite his voice that speaks, and his throat burns cold.

Geralt takes out the knife that's strapped along his side, lifts it enough to catch the light. The dark thing in Jaskier's mind is louder now, cackling and screaming with delight. It loves this, _loves_ it, and maybe Jaskier loves it too, or maybe Jaskier is it, maybe it is him, warm and drunk on the discovery of power. He'd never scream for help again—he might never want for anything again. He licks his lips, and tastes blood.

The next thing he's aware of is being on his hands and knees in the grass, coughing blood. It's on his chin, and the ends of his sleeves where he keeps wiping at his chin, and his throat feels raw. 

He swallows hard a few times and looks up. Geralt's kneeling in front of him, and he's bloody too, except that it's all down the front of him. There's a dark gash across the front of his neck.

"What the hell," Jaskier tries to say, but his voice isn't working and all he can manage is a gasp.

"I think your little curse comes with powers of suggestion," Geralt says, and pointedly sheathes his knife. "Fortunately for me, you've also got limits. And apparently, no idea where a man's jugular is."

"Gods, fuck." The words come out in a stinging whisper. Geralt is in front of him, covered in blood. While he's coughing up his lungs. This is—this is very not good. "I was going to kill you."

"Doubtless that was the point of the curse," Geralt rumbles. 

Jaskier chokes on blood again and has to hack it out on the ground. He's _not_ going to cry, not when he isn't the one who almost died, but he feels like it.

"You have to kill me if I even start to—no. You have to kill me before I go on a murder-spree. Swear it, Geralt."

"No."

"Why not? It's y—" The word dies. His voice will not _fucking_ cooperate. "S'your job to kill monsters."

"It's my job to stop them."

"Right," he cough-laughs, "and the sword is for decoration."

"The sword," Geralt grits, "is for worst-case scenarios."

Jaskier would argue that _there's a lot of worse case scenarios then_ , if his voice would just _work._

"I'm going to gag you instead," Geralt's voice comes from further away now, like he's just—gotten up and walked away. Typical witcher bullshit. "Finish choking."

Jaskier opens his mouth to ask exactly what _that_ means, and Geralt uses the opportunity to shove something that tastes like it's probably the leather strap in his mouth. Geralt ties it firmly around his head, not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that he definitely can't speak. The indignity is extreme, but it's hard to muster any feelings except guilty horror. He's not going to be able to salvage a good day. Better to accept that now.

Geralt leaves him sitting there, gagged, and starts stripping off his weapons. Jaskier's seen him disrobe, and he knows there are lots of little knives. It's a Thing: big burly men always have about six more knives than you think they're going to. He hadn't known there were throwing stars, though, and he definitely hadn't known about the brass knuckles. When Geralt's done he shoves all his sharp implements into a pack, and ties it with about seven more knots than were really necessary. Then he starts walking around picking up pointy sticks and throwing them in a pile near where Roach is tethered.

Jaskier has no idea what's going on here, until Geralt turns his back, and starts obviously downing some kind of potion. Nice that he tried to be discreet about it, at least. He looks back over his shoulder.

"Ready?"

"Mmph." Like he's supposed to be able to answer anything else. Geralt comes around behind him to unlace the gag. The line of drool that follows it out of his mouth is unbelievably long. It feels like a betrayal, honestly. Being gagged should be at least a little bit sexy, and this was Very Not.

"Order me," Geralt says. "You need to practice." Of _course_ that's what this is. Jaskier's seen the redemption routine played out before. It never goes like it's supposed to.

"What—what's something you only _kind of_ don't want to do?"

Geralt shrugs. "Be creative."

That's a bold statement if he's ever heard one.

He orders Geralt to sing The Ballad of the Blue Fens. Geralt knows all the words to the first four verses, which is a surprise, and has a rolling baritone that is tuneful if not lovely. It's very satisfying. Jaskier asks for a somersault next, but Geralt does it much too gracefully, ending on his feet like he's ready to make a killing blow. Less satisfying, obviously. Jaskier tells him to do a reel, to make up for it.

"No." Geralt says. 

"Why not?" (Damn it. Worth a shot.)

Geralt shrugs. "The potion helps. I wasn't trying to resist before."

The wings do work, it turns out, if he uses The Voice (what? that's what he's going to call it, he's too fed up with this to be inventive) for long enough to succumb to the dark undercurrent of energy that apparently powers it. He learns this from Geralt after he wakes up from another faint face-down in the grass. Apparently evil-Jaskier's sordid plan had been flying them into the air and dropping Geralt to his death.

"You didn't predict that outcome."

Geralt is kneeling in front of him wearing a fucking _smirk_. "I'm just glad the wings work."

"They only work to facilitate murder, but I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Are you going to gag me again now that I've tried to kill you twice?"

"No." Geralt gets up. "But I do like you better quiet."

"I regret my failure to kill you already."

It's easier to banter than to think about what he's capable of, honestly. 

* **  
**

Geralt's his regular stoic self all the next day. He's obviously satisfied that Jaskier is not a threat, and Jaskier tries to let that pleasant thought rub off on him, with varying success. When they make camp, Geralt tells him to try again, so Jaskier does. He starts slow and easy, tells Geralt to walk sideways, to walk backward, to walk forward. And then forward, again, and forward and _forward_.

When he wakes up there are 4 dark spots on Geralt's neck, and there's something _off_ about, that, something he's missing, and he's still trying to figure it out when Geralt speaks.

"Forgot you could bite," he says, as calm as a person who has _not_ just had Jaskier chomp them on the throat. The insane nonchalance is not funny enough to stop Jaskier from feeling like he needs to vomit.

"We need to try again."

"Tomorrow. Or I'll run out of potion."

Jaskier would start an argument here, normally, but his typical arguing style consists of making charmingly unreasonable demands, and it would be easy to start making imperative statements without noticing, and well, wouldn't that be fucked up?

It would. Chalk one up for practicing thoughtful debate. 

They try again at noon the next day. Geralt probably just wants to do it before they get any closer to the rest of humanity, but it's nicer to imagine that he's being accommodating, so Jaskier does.

He's got The Voice reined in, he thinks, and he's about to say that when his hands suddenly get ice cold, and then the cackling thing inside him is trying to brain Geralt with a rock. Either he's getting better at attempted murder or it's just a less draining method, because he doesn't pass out. Instead, he watches (screaming) from a tiny cell underneath the hot, black mess of his mind as his body launches itself at Geralt. It's easily divested of its weapon and ends up on the ground with Geralt's forearm pressed into its neck, knees pinning down its beating wings. Eventually it—he?—is too exhausted to go on fighting, and the dark clouds in his mind thin out, let his rational thoughts scramble to the surface. He presses his hands to his face the second he can move them, digs the heels into his eyes. 

It's not until they're back on Roach that he sees the red welt rising on Geralt's cheekbone, and then he can't _stop_ seeing it, has to keep swallowing hard and trying to breathe evenly until it's almost nightfall, and they're stopping in some grimy little village.

"Downwarren," Geralt says. "Lie low; I'll talk." 

And Geralt tries, but the innkeeper must notice the crimson in Jaskier's downcast eyes, and looks at them warily when Geralt asks for a room. He doesn't reply, and the moment stretches out long and sticky and awful until Jaskier speaks.

"Give us a room. We'll be no trouble."

The man's coarse face broadens into a smile, "of course, sir," and Jaskier looks at the thick stripe on Geralt's face and feels sick.

Getting food, at least, poses no problems. The stew even has flavour for once—and in a world ruled by fairness and logic, Geralt would focus his witcher senses on that blessing and let Jaskier steep in wretchedness unscorned. But every other bite he sends Jaskier a narrow look, and Jaskier's not going to pretend the amber gaze is concerned when it's just as likely to be disdainful.

Just this one time it's _him_ that needs a nice, miserable brood, and Geralt won't even let him have it.

"I could kill you."

"I could kill you, too," Geralt replies. How sweet.

"I could kill you by _accident_."

"You won't."

"And how do you know that, _Geralt_?"

"You've got to make at least six commands before you start to get..."

"Deranged?"

"That. I've counted."

Geralt of Rivia, master of the scientific method. It figures.

"So I'm supposed to just live... with this thing inside me, longing for blood?"

Geralt shrugs, but something stiffens along the line of his shoulders. It's something Jaskier might have missed, a few years ago. It's something he'd never miss now. Is that how Geralt feels, too? Cursed? Monstrous? Too dangerous to let anyone exist alongside him?

The idea is unacceptable, so Jaskier leans across the table and takes a bite of Geralt's stew (it tastes the same as his own, predictably enough). Geralt glares violently at him, and his shoulders relax.

*

It turns out there is _one_ perk to being cursed. The perk is that when Geralt accepts a job to take out some Foglers the next day, he doesn't even tell Jaskier to stay behind. About time.

So Jaskier is there, watching with gritted teeth as the number of lanky grey bodies around Geralt doubles, and doubles again. He's not sure where they're coming from, only that they seem to manifest endlessly from somewhere in the thick white mist that cloaks the ground.

Geralt is breathing hard, his sword carving frantic arcs into the fabric of dusk. They're all around him, pressing closer each time he pauses. One even manages to get close enough to grab at him, and he stumbles down to one knee before he can kill it. He turns immediately, already ready to block attacks to his unguarded back, but it's a near thing. Jaskier tastes something like bile in his throat, and suddenly he's running into the swamp, fog swirling white about his knees. Hopefully the curse doesn't increase in proportion to his meddling in witcher business. Gods. Wouldn't that just be great.

"Hear me!" he shouts, and it's louder than his voice alone could possibly be, a ringing wail that shakes the wet black leaves and makes the inky puddles ripple. There is blood running down his throat, and he swallows it down viciously as six pairs of glowing eyes settle on him.

"Kneel," Jaskier says, and they do, sinking down around Geralt, their huge, hunched bodies looming out of the fog like mounds of rock in a river. He thinks one or two more appear out of the mist, but it's hard to tell in the dark.

Geralt turns in a slow circle, almost dazed himself. Then he seems to _wake_ , somehow, and begins to behead the things methodically, inky blood spraying up to spatter his forearms. It's a grisly sight, but Jaskier has seen Geralt do worse. It's still far too easy to look through the layer of gore like a windowpane and see only the lines of Geralt's body as he moves. As he kills. Jaskier _definitely_ shouldn't like it.

Geralt comes to face him when it's done, breathing hard, and Jaskier's not sure why—as monster killing goes this was blessedly uncomplicated. Geralt looks at him with a gaze almost worshipful in its intensity, and Jaskier for a moment thinks that Geralt will kneel too, wonders if his command affected more than only the monsters.

Then the witcher exhales, and turns to wipe his sword on the grass, and Jaskier quietly spits blood at the base of a tree, and that's the end of it. 

Or it should be. The drizzle that's been following them all day stops, and they find a less-swampy patch of ground between a few saplings to spend the night. Geralt digs ropes out of his pack and hangs their damp clothes and Roach's saddle blanket to dry. His shirt has a hole in it the size of, well, the Fogler claw that tore it, and because he apparently thrives on Jaskier's silent misery, he takes it off to mend in front of their smoky excuse for a fire. 

Jaskier avoids Geralt's eyes, and also the rest of his half-naked body, still flecked with blood in easy-to-miss places. He looks down at his bloodless, killer's hands and chokes down a dark thrill that he hopes belongs to the curse and not his own heart. He's powerful enough to save Geralt _back_ , and that is worth... is it worth this?

He doesn't know. He looks up to see Geralt staring at him.

"You're quiet."

"Throat hurts."

Geralt nods, and his face tightens minutely in what Jaskier realizes is _guilt_ before he looks back down at his sewing. 

"I'm fine," he adds. "Just... just thinking. I'm _contemplative_. You of all people should understand."

"Hm."

*

Another few days pass, and Geralt's still giving him odd looks. It's not concern, because Jaskier is fine, or he's _acting_ very fine, and Geralt is not the sort of person who is capable of mustering needless worry. Also, there's a dark heat in his eyes that makes it more likely Geralt's changed his mind about how safe this is, that he's waiting for the moment Jaskier goes fully evil and sends him over a cliff or something.

Actually, there's no cliffs anywhere near them, so Jaskier would have to talk him into the point of a knife again, probably. Anyway. It's been two weeks since the curse, so if Geralt was actually reconsidering prancing around the countryside with a murderous bird-demon he should have just said it. He never does though, only stares at Jaskier across the fire when he's trying to choke down his stale chunks of bread in peace.

"Why," Jaskier suddenly bursts out, "are you _gawping_ at me?"

Geralt looks... surprised.

"I'm not," he says, amber eyes as wide and innocent as Jaskier's ever seen them. 

"What then? Do you have a strange fetish for men with extravagant wings?" 

Geralt blows a breath out his nose, almost like he's laughing, and doesn't respond.

"Stop mocking me, witcher!" He's angry. He hadn't realized _that_ before. He likes attention, sure; he doesn't enjoy being a spectacle.

"I'm not." Geralt says simply, meeting Jaskiers eyes. "I like them. They're..." his eyes flicker back down "appealing."

"Appeal, as in a feature that makes me minutely more tolerable, or appeal as in sex appeal?"

Geralt looks up into his eyes and doesn't answer. Looks back down. Is he—smirking? Impossible to tell what he's thinking, when he won't ever just say it.

Jaskier kisses him anyway.

Geralt kisses him back more tenderly than Jaskier would have guessed he was capable of, his calloused fingertips trailing Jaskier's jaw. It's sweet, until Jaskier realizes that his wings are dragging on the ground and he lifts them, or tries to. What actually happens is that he buffets Geralt in the side of the head with one of them, and Geralt groans and bites down on his lip.

Is it a bit odd that a witcher has an obvious _thing_ for monsters? Maybe. Jaskier's not going to argue with it.

They do an odd shuffling stumble onto a section of ground that contains less, well, fire, and Jaskier crawls on top of Geralt eagerly enough that it's impossible to deny he's wanted this for a _while_. He gets Geralt's pants undone almost as expertly as he would have been able to without trying to keep the wings out of the way. It turns out he doesn't really _have_ to keep them out of the way, since every time he lets the feathered edges brush Geralt's torso, he lets out this unbelievably feral growl. It's very gratifying making him do it over and over, even if it's probably obvious by now that it's not accidental.

Yeah, it's obvious. Might as well lean into it.

He lifts himself onto one knee between Geralt's legs, braces himself over the ground with one hand so he can brush the front edge of his wing over Geralt's hipbone. Geralt makes a loud, animalistic sound, and yeah, Jaskier's good at this, okay? He is. He leans back down and starts again, and Geralt grips him hard on the shoulder.

"Jaskier." He's panting. Gods, Geralt of Rivia reduced to a total mess with a feather. (Well, Jaskier's mouth was involved too, obviously. It's still poetic.)

"Tell me not to come."

That's not going to work, since The Voice affects willpower and not physiology, and Geralt's physiology can not reasonably be delayed for much longer.

"Don't come, Geralt," Jaskier says anyway, and strokes him a little, to be obtuse. 

"Fuck." Geralt whispers, and no, it definitely doesn't work like that.

They lie down to sleep eventually, after a few unsuccessful attempts. Geralt is fucking insatiable, which is honestly fair, since he's not getting much in the middle of the wilderness. Jaskier's not upset about it. 

Jaskier's on his stomach, because there's no not-awful way to lie with the wings under him, and Geralt's on his back beside him, with a wing spread out across his chest. Geralt runs his fingers over the feathers more and more slowly until Jaskier assumes he's almost sleeping. That's just too bad for him.

"So, is this more like 'you're fucking a murderous winged thing that happens to be me, because you have have a complicated relationship with darkness and very twisted self-perception,' or 'you're fucking me, and it's a pleasant bonus that I have wings and crave murder, because you—"

"Jaskier." Geralt's voice is muzzy, and his hands bump Jaskier's wing as he lifts them to scrub against his forehead. 

So he _was_ sleeping. Oh well.

"I let you follow me around the continent for ten months." 

"That's not flirting, Geralt. That's... tolerating."

Geralt turns to looks at him and it's too dark to see his eyes really, but he's probably glaring.

"No, this is tolerating." He sighs. "I made you my problem before this curse happened, which I wouldn't have done if I didn't—"

Geralt sighs again, a long slow exhale, drags a hand across his eyes. Then he presses his lips against Jaskier's forehead. It's not a kiss as much as it's Geralt just resting his mouth there, but it makes something twist low in Jaskier's gut—and now he's fucked, because these feelings are prelude to the kind of heartbreak he could sing about for years.

"Sleep, Jaskier," Geralt murmurs, voice muffled against Jaskier's skin, and then rolls away, pulling the wing with him like it's his personal blanket.

The entitled moron. Jaskier lifts his chin so he can press his lips to the jutting knobs of Geralt's spine. Geralt rumbles quietly, like a contented panther, and something that had been pressing on Jaskier's insides lifts and lightens, and it's—it's not like he doesn't want the cure anymore. He does. But honestly, there probably isn't one and he's made peace with... this. 

He could live with this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All comments will be adored and fawned over at length (constructive criticism too, I have no beta, I need to Learn Things).
> 
> Oh yeah, I'm on [tumblr](https://athousandvictories.tumblr.com/)


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